bookshelves, shook out plump cushions, dug down the back of the soft sofa and shuffled through piles of newspapers and magazines. ‘I don’t know where they get to. I must have had them just before I came to answer the door. Now, let’s see. What was I doing when you arrived?’ She paused and thought back. ‘That’s it. I was sewing. I was sitting just where you are now.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Johnny, jumping up. ‘I didn’t know this was your chair.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re my guest. You can sit where you like. Just forgive me a moment.’ Johnny heard her knees click as she bent down and scrabbled on the floor behind his feet. She pulled out a work basket. An old sock dangled from under the lid. ‘I remember now. I slid it there when the bell rang – just in case it was the vicar or someone like that. I wouldn’t want him to catch me darning holes!’
Johnny held the basket while Mrs Langford, sighing, hauled herself back up again. Then she took it back, and lifted out her spectacles. ‘If I had sixpence for every time I’ve lost these, I’d be a very rich woman,’ she joked. ‘I’ve seen people with their glasses on special strings round their necks. Rather an ageing effect, I’ve always thought. Butperhaps the time has come for me.’
Johnny was already mentally composing a new advert:
Never Lose Your Glasses Again
. He was wondering whether to send people real string, or just the suggestion that they could tie up their glasses themselves. Maybe he could charge more if he used coloured ribbon …
Mrs Langford straightened out Johnny’s cutting, and looked at it through her spectacles. ‘Oh, Umckaloabo. I’ve heard of this. There was a big row about it a few years ago. This Charles Stevens was struck off because of it.’
‘Struck off?’
Mrs Langford explained: ‘Struck off the Medical Register. It means the authorities took away his right to practise medicine. He’s not allowed to call himself a doctor any more. He was making wild claims about an unproven drug. He’s what we call a quack.’
‘A what?’
‘A quack. A fake doctor.’
‘They call me Quacky at school,’ said Johnny. ‘But it’s nothing to do with doctors. It’s because of my name: Swanson. It makes them think of ducks.’
‘That’s not very nice of them,’ said Mrs Langford. ‘But boys will be boys, I suppose. They called myhusband Longfeet when he was at school, because he was so tall.’
‘What’s all this?’ said Dr Langford, who had just entered the room. ‘Oh, hello, Johnny. I wasn’t expecting to see you. Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No,’ said Johnny miserably, unable to disguise his disappointment at finding that the advertisement was a trick.
Mrs Langford passed the cutting to her husband. ‘It’s Umckaloabo again,’ she said.
Dr Langford patted his pockets. ‘Can I borrow your glasses a minute?’ he asked. His wife passed them over, with a wink to Johnny. The doctor sighed. ‘So he’s still making money out of it. It’s a disgrace, giving false hope to worried people and pocketing the proceeds. I thought we’d seen the back of this Stevens character.’ Dr Langford was still reading the advertisement. ‘He lives a long way away. Wimbledon.’ He looked up at Johnny, grinning. ‘You know what Wimbledon is famous for, don’t you, son?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’
‘Tennis.’ There was an awkward pause. The doctor seemed to be waiting for something. ‘Do you see? Do you get it? Has the penny dropped?’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Johnny, embarrassed and confused.
‘It’s just that … well … you know … this Umckaloabo stuff. It’s a Wimbledon racket.’ The doctor paused again. Eventually Johnny got the joke, and mustered a half-hearted laugh.
Mrs Langford threw the cutting on the fire.
‘I bet hundreds of people will answer that advertisement and pay good money for rubbish,’ said Dr Langford. ‘It’s not right.’
‘Why don’t
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Johnny, jumping up. ‘I didn’t know this was your chair.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re my guest. You can sit where you like. Just forgive me a moment.’ Johnny heard her knees click as she bent down and scrabbled on the floor behind his feet. She pulled out a work basket. An old sock dangled from under the lid. ‘I remember now. I slid it there when the bell rang – just in case it was the vicar or someone like that. I wouldn’t want him to catch me darning holes!’
Johnny held the basket while Mrs Langford, sighing, hauled herself back up again. Then she took it back, and lifted out her spectacles. ‘If I had sixpence for every time I’ve lost these, I’d be a very rich woman,’ she joked. ‘I’ve seen people with their glasses on special strings round their necks. Rather an ageing effect, I’ve always thought. Butperhaps the time has come for me.’
Johnny was already mentally composing a new advert:
Never Lose Your Glasses Again
. He was wondering whether to send people real string, or just the suggestion that they could tie up their glasses themselves. Maybe he could charge more if he used coloured ribbon …
Mrs Langford straightened out Johnny’s cutting, and looked at it through her spectacles. ‘Oh, Umckaloabo. I’ve heard of this. There was a big row about it a few years ago. This Charles Stevens was struck off because of it.’
‘Struck off?’
Mrs Langford explained: ‘Struck off the Medical Register. It means the authorities took away his right to practise medicine. He’s not allowed to call himself a doctor any more. He was making wild claims about an unproven drug. He’s what we call a quack.’
‘A what?’
‘A quack. A fake doctor.’
‘They call me Quacky at school,’ said Johnny. ‘But it’s nothing to do with doctors. It’s because of my name: Swanson. It makes them think of ducks.’
‘That’s not very nice of them,’ said Mrs Langford. ‘But boys will be boys, I suppose. They called myhusband Longfeet when he was at school, because he was so tall.’
‘What’s all this?’ said Dr Langford, who had just entered the room. ‘Oh, hello, Johnny. I wasn’t expecting to see you. Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No,’ said Johnny miserably, unable to disguise his disappointment at finding that the advertisement was a trick.
Mrs Langford passed the cutting to her husband. ‘It’s Umckaloabo again,’ she said.
Dr Langford patted his pockets. ‘Can I borrow your glasses a minute?’ he asked. His wife passed them over, with a wink to Johnny. The doctor sighed. ‘So he’s still making money out of it. It’s a disgrace, giving false hope to worried people and pocketing the proceeds. I thought we’d seen the back of this Stevens character.’ Dr Langford was still reading the advertisement. ‘He lives a long way away. Wimbledon.’ He looked up at Johnny, grinning. ‘You know what Wimbledon is famous for, don’t you, son?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’
‘Tennis.’ There was an awkward pause. The doctor seemed to be waiting for something. ‘Do you see? Do you get it? Has the penny dropped?’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Johnny, embarrassed and confused.
‘It’s just that … well … you know … this Umckaloabo stuff. It’s a Wimbledon racket.’ The doctor paused again. Eventually Johnny got the joke, and mustered a half-hearted laugh.
Mrs Langford threw the cutting on the fire.
‘I bet hundreds of people will answer that advertisement and pay good money for rubbish,’ said Dr Langford. ‘It’s not right.’
‘Why don’t
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